Ginger Snaps
by gorgonmaid
Summary: In the world of Sherlock Holmes, the more bizarre something seemed, quite often the more commonplace it was. Such was the case of Ginger Snaps.


**Ginger Snaps**

**Chapter 1**

"I think we have a client," Holmes said, his feet and long legs curled up under him in his favourite armchair. He plucked at the violin in his hand, but did not play it.

The weather had been abysmal for days. A never-ending drench marked by grey skies and swollen gutters. Sherlock never does well cooped up with nothing to entertain him.

I often wondered then, and still do, what depths he must have sunken to when I, or someone like me, was not around. Obviously he had a life before me. He must have had people who spent time with him and listened to or, like I have always tended to, marvelled at his mind's ability to derive from inconsequential ephemera, facts and calculations that were, far more often than not, startlingly accurate.

"Why do you say that?" I asked, flipping over the pages of the still damp morning Post. I had hardly asked the question when the bell rang downstairs and Mrs. Hudson called up as high-heeled steps rose up the stairwell, "Client, I think, Sherlock."

A young woman, striking in face and slender of body, entered, shaking the dripping water from her rain slicker's sleeves.

"Hello," I said, rising from my seat by the fire to greet her. She held out her delicate hand and we shook. She moved to Holmes and shook his hand.

"Sorry about the floor," she said quietly, looking back from where she'd come to see a long trail of water coating the floor.

"It's of no consequence," Sherlock said as he sat back down and placed his instrument on the table beside him. "Though I hope your trip to see us will not be likewise," he continued under his breath.

"How may we help you?" I inquired, taking her wet jacket and showing her to my chair by the fire. As she neared the fire, I could clearly see she had the most vivid red hair – a true ginger – damp at the ends where the hood had failed to cover them. "Well…I hardly know where to start," she began.

"The beginning is often a good place for logical reasons, though the middle is often more interesting," Holmes said drily while retrieving his violin.

"Yeah, of course. Well, I am a-" she began.

"-student studying linguistics…almost done your degree from the looks of you," Sherlock interrupted. "You had been working in a café for some time, but had changed jobs briefly before a very recent trip to China."

The young woman started at his words. "Yes, I am studying linguistics! And I did change jobs and I got back from China not 2 days ago - how ever did you know all that?"

"Over enunciation of final consonant sounds from years of attentive study – that and the linguistics textbook visible through the net pocket of your bag," he explained, secretly pleased she was impressed by his skill. Though he had no thoughts of love or romance, he was always happy to impress young women because they were always so expressive in their incredulity.

"Amazing, but how did you-" she asked, her eyes as wide as saucers.

"The series of burns along your right forearm are the kind made from accidently touching your arm to the edge of a commercial coffee maker – like one would find in a café - repeatedly. If you had done it at home that many times, it would mean you would be a far clumsier person than you obviously are, and you would have simply replaced it. Therefore, it means it is not yours to replace – so work. The burns are faded and there are no really recent ones, so either the coffeemaker has been replaced, or you've changed vocations – more likely a change in jobs some weeks ago since the coffee stains under your fingernails are also almost gone as well. And the tattoo above your right wrist was made using an ink that is usually found in the better parlours in Beijing. And although someone in London might have brought it in, since the tattoo says something actually quite profound in ancient Chinese script rather than expressing a love for soup or some such nonsense, I presume it was done over there. There is still some puffiness in the area, so it must have been fairly recent. I have made a study of tattoos – it's on my website if you'd care to look at it. Finally, your backpack has a rather new looking tag with PEK on it – Beijing airport," he explained in rapid fire pointing his bow at the bag in question. Our guest was stunned for a moment but then responded.

"Oh, well now that you explain it, it sort of makes sense."

"Does it?" asked Sherlock, raising his eyebrows and continuing. ''You know, John, I will have to stop explaining things so thoroughly or my reputation as a genius is sure to suffer."

"Please do continue Miss…," I said awkwardly, immediately aware that she had not introduced herself yet.

"Janey Wilson, sorry. Yeah, well, Mr. Holmes is right. I was working at the Plaza Café on Dover Street. I was a server there for 2 years to support myself in school."

"Go on," I said encouragingly after she paused in her telling and Sherlock fell silent.

"Well…I was online one day – I do a lot of social networking when things get slow – and I saw a friend of a friend of mine was looking for someone who spoke German. I studied German for many years in school and they were advertising for someone to read German texts for a private webcast. Actually a red-head who spoke German."

"Did you know the person who advertised?" I asked while taking notes in my small notebook.

"No, not directly. So I messaged the fellow and asked more about the job. I was hoping to get an idea about him from my mate Rina."

"What has she to do with this?" Holmes asked, returning the violin to the table beside him. For such a fine instrument, he did treat it harshly at times.

"She is a friend – we worked together at the café."

"And what did she have to say about-" I began.

"This mate," Sherlock interrupted, "how long had the two of you worked together?"

"Um…not long. She had started about 2 months before I left. She is a nice girl – odd, but nice, though I had known her before from around the university."

"And this man was a contact of hers?" I asked. I could see where Holmes was headed in his questioning.

"I don't know that she knew him all that well. I think she just thought…ginger…German…" she said pointing to herself and then trailed off.

"Right. Why is it people invite strangers into their lives thinking they are safe because it is the internet?" Holmes mused, lifting his violin up again, plucking the strings mindlessly.

"I know it all felt pretty dodgy. Strange man and a peculiar job, but the money was good, and it was clean and it was a far sight better than waiting tables. He asked me questions about my education, my language abilities and wanted me to guarantee that I was a true ginger – not a dye job – which I am, by the way."

Holmes plucked louder and she quickly continued. She became suddenly aware that his level of boredom was in direct proportion to the volume of the plucking. I think she knew if she didn't catch his attention quickly, he would start actually _playing_ the instrument and her time would be unceremoniously up!

"Anyway, the job came with some very odd and very specific instructions. He told me to quit my serving job. He offered me twice the money to sit in an overstuffed red arm chair for four hours every weekday morning in a room and read German – well, fairy tales – well, _erotic_ fairy tales. He explained that he and some other men wanted to watch me read them. I guess it was some sort of fetish?"

The plucking ceased and she seemed to relax somewhat. "Why am I not surprised? Just another _hobby_ that flourishes in the anonymity of the internet," Sherlock barked.

"I was told not to leave, not to use any electronic devices, and not to speak to anyone about my work. I never even met the man. I picked up the key from the next door neighbor, and the fellow texted me the details. He told me there were several cameras in the room and that they would be watching me for four hours every morning. He said he would know if I left and that that would be the end of the job."

"And when did the job come to its mysterious end?"

"How…it did end _mysteriously _not 7 days ago," she cried, surprise once again evident in her voice and face - it was a facial expression that I knew well having worn it so often myself. "He commended me on my excellent work and offered to pay for a 3 day trip to China as a bonus. Of course I took him up on it – I have always wanted to go there."

Holmes tented his fingers under his chin while his eyes took on a faraway look.

"What happened when you went back after your trip to China?" I asked.

"It was closed up and from what I could see through the windows, there was nothing left of the red chair, the cameras or anything else. I got a short text this morning apologizing for the short notice, and that was that."

Holmes rose to his feet placing the instrument back on the table. He walked to the window and peered out into the rain. He was silent for several minutes before I cleared my throat to remind him we were still there.

"I haven't forgotten you, either of you. I was just thinking."

"And what were you thinking?" I asked on her behalf.

"I was thinking that she should get her old job back as soon as possible."

"I knew it was too good…I knew it. Only now I have no job and I still have to pay for school. He never even paid me for the last two weeks of work."

"Thank you for coming by," Holmes said suddenly.

"Oh…right…I guess it isn't the kind of thing you…" she said, rising from the chair.

"No, you misunderstand me. Give me two days and I will have an answer for you, if not your wages. In the meanwhile, I feel certain your boss would hire you back if made an inquiry."

"Is that right? That's brilliant. You are remarkable, just as they say."

"Do they say I am remarkable?" Holmes asked, his ego threatening to emerge full-blown.

"Thank you for coming. We'll take the problem under advisement and get back to you as soon as we can. I'll get those addresses from you. Try not to worry," I said in what I'd hoped was a soothing tone.

The young lady put on her damp jacket and clicked back down the stairs with me following close behind. When I returned to the flat, Sherlock was curled up on the settee.

"Bizarre business – pervs on the internet. So, what shall we do?" I asked.

"We?" Holmes replied.

"Alright _you_ – what shall _you_ do?"

Holmes rolled toward me and pulled up his sleeve to show me the 3 nicotine patches affixed to his left forearm. They were nearly the colour of his flesh and so were hardly visible against his pale skin.

"Usually the more bizarre it seems, the more commonplace the solution is. But, for now this is a 3-patch problem and I need to think for about an hour." And with that he curled back up and closed his eyes. "Let's go out tonight," he murmured from under the arm flung across his face. "I am in the mood for a good cup of coffee."


End file.
